


So Far Fallen

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Also Fantasy Politics For Some Reason, Bondage, Crying During Sex, Deepthroating, Dehumanization, Genital Piercing, Humiliation, M/M, Praise Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Slave Training, Spoils of War, Treat, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When the war is over and the casualties have been counted, it all comes down to this: a true king makes sacrifices for his people.





	So Far Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



He does not fight it.

Earlier, yes, he raged against his enemy; he fought with sword and shield and—when those broke or were lost—with tooth and jagged nail. On the battlefield they called him the mad king, Avesko Dal-Ivven, and he delighted in the name. There was no longer any point in grandstanding or shows of honor between foes, not when war they fought had gone beyond matters of glory. His people were fighting for their dignity, for their very right to survive as a country.

And they had lost.

Avesko had fought until the end, until the moment when his enemies were battering down the gates and the loathsome empire's swords were at his people's throats. And then, when he had seen that there was no more fighting to be done, he had bowed his head and dropped his weapon and made a deal.

The terms of surrender took months to decide. The advisers on both sides had argued back and forth until all of them were croaking like frogs from the yelling they were doing. But from the very beginning, the moment the first treaty was drawn out on old parchment and blood-tinted ink on the floors of the king's own chambers, there'd been a clause that no one would dare touch. Few of his would even admit to having read it, as if their denial could make it less real.

It was real enough for him, though. Realer now that his kingdom has been signed over and he's finally living up to his end of the bargain.

The king's debasement in exchange for his people's lives, his humiliation for their safety. It was a deal any proper ruler would make. He will not—cannot—regret it.

Not even now, when he's naked and shivering in the cold, waiting for the moment when he will go before the Aeternis Empire's elite and truly become _nothing_ in their eyes.

The knock comes almost as soon as the water turns off. “Are you done?”

Avesko startles, half-looking for a robe to wrap himself in, but of course there won't be one. He'll have accustom himself to this. “I am,” he says finally, “please, come in.”

The door slides open to reveal his… minders, he supposes. ( _Trainers_ , his brain offers, though the very word makes him shudder. He might not be a true king anymore, but there's a difference between losing his status and becoming some kind of—animal.) There are two of them, Gereon and Leos: both impeccably dressed, both young and beautiful in an unsettling sort of way. They look so very similar that he can only assume they're twins, but neither ever seems to acknowledge the other as family. 

Well, he'd only been introduced a little less than a day ago. Perhaps they keep their professional and personal lives separate. Were he in their shoes, he probably would do the same.

Avesko can't help it—as the first of the two step into the room, he brings his hands up to cover himself as best he can. Gereon makes a quiet noise of disappointment at the sight, and without so much as a moment of hesitation he reaches over and pulls his hands back down to his sides.

“A slave does not attempt to hide his body,” he says quietly, his hands still circling Avesko's wrists. “If your master wishes you not to be seen, they will provide you with whatever is necessary to keep your covered. Do you understand?”

He takes a shuddering breath. His cheeks are red-hot and there's an awful empty pit churning in his stomach. “Yes,” he says, “I do.”

“Good.” Gereon takes a step back and turns to his partner. “At least he's a quick study.”

Leos snorts, a scowl deepening the lines of his face. For all they look alike, the two seem to be opposites in personality; where Gereon is patient and near-emotionless, Leos seems constantly on the edge of snapping. “He'd have to be a _real_ fucking prodigy for that to do any good, with the timeline they've given us. He's clearance-bin merch with a premier price tag and there isn't anything we can do about that.”

“Sorry to cause you trouble,” Avesko says, rather sardonically. He's hardly even surprised when the first man slaps a hand over his mouth, though he can't stop himself from bristling at the touch. 

“Slaves also don't speak out of turn. You'll want to learn that lesson quickly.”

There's something about Gereon that sets his blood boiling. For all he seems calmer, less volatile, the emptiness in his eyes just can't be ignored. At least Avesko knows how to read Leos; irritation burns in his every word.

He can't afford to endanger the terms of the deal, though, so instead he just drops his eyes to the floor.

“See?” Gereon, a touch approvingly, “he learns.” He turns to Avesko once more, his unnerving gaze fixed upon him, and adds, “normally we would not deal with one of your inexperience—”

“Or age,” Leos snorts.

“Or age,” he agrees, “or… physical condition.” One hand reaches up to trace the many scars layering Avesko's back. “But circumstances being as they are, we decided to make an exception. You're a very valuable piece of merchandise. And…”

Without warning, his free hand slides down to cup Avesko's cock, pressing against him with all the gentleness of a lover's embrace.

He sucks in a breath and forces his eyes closed. His face is burning hot. His lower lip stings from the force of his filed-sharp teeth biting down. He won't give them the satisfaction of reacting, won't snarl or rage or try to twist away the way he knows they want. 

_This is nothing,_ he reminds himself. _This is nothing, this is nothing._ He has no right to the anger boiling up inside him. His people have suffered more humiliation than this.

“I'm told there's something appealing about innocence,” Gereon continues, as if he weren't in the middle of anything untoward at all. “I don't really understand it, but to each their own.”

“Let's get a move on already,” Leos snaps.

With one last painful squeeze, Gereon lets him go. “Agreed.” He reaches up to grab at the collar wrapped around Avesko's neck and brings him to heel. No words need to pass between them—the pull on his throat is signal enough.

Leos steps up to him. Avesko is a good head taller than either, but there's no sign of caring in the man's face. He looks up at him with the haughtiness of someone who's entirely sure of his station.

It hardly feels real. No one has ever dared look at him with such clear disregard before. But then he catches sight of what's in his hand, and all everything else suddenly pales in significance. 

It's nothing more than a long strip of padded cloth, dark black and sleek-looking, but its meaning is clear. If he puts this on, will he ever be able to take it off again? What will he see when—if—he finally gets to open his eyes once more? He's heard the stories; he knows what the people here do to their slaves.

There's an impatient little tug on the ring of his collar. When he glances to the side, Gereon is staring back at him. The twin forces of the two men's gazes is almost too much to bear.

Avesko swallows down his pride and his horror with one desperate gulp and carefully picks up the cloth. He holds it to his eyes as one of the men ties it tightly around his head.

When they are done, no light filters around the edges of the thick fabric. The walls feel suffocatingly close and impossibly far away all at once; even the ground under his feet no longer seems quite so stable. The only thing that keeps his body from floating away completely is that tight grip on his collar. Perversely, he's almost grateful for the way it anchors him.

After a moment or two, a wordless tug urges him forward. He has no way of knowing what's ahead. He also has no choice.

He follows.

–

The next few hours have the hazy, impossible quality of a nightmare. If not for the pain—a constant reminder of the reality of his situation—he might hold out hope of waking up.

His trainers (because he can no longer deny exactly what they are) leave no part of his body untouched. Hot wax is poured on his legs, his arms, his chest, and when they peel it off his hair comes tearing out of its roots with it. Twice he's forced to hold water within him until his insides are cramping and then made to release it. His ears are the first to feel the stabbing invasion of a needle and the thin metal bar that holds the hole open, but his tongue and his nipples are soon pierced in just the same way.

He should have expected it, given the Aeternis Empire's penchant for obscenely elaborate jewelry, but he can't hold back the quiet moan of horror when he feels the needle press against the head of his cock.

“No,” he asks quietly, begging without words for this one little reprieve.

The only answer he gets is a sharp tug against his collar, firm and quick enough to leave him gasping for air.

Slaves don't speak. Slaves don't bargain. The needle slides through his sensitive flesh a moment later, and he takes quick gasping breaths to keep from coming to pieces as the pain burns within him.

It's not the physical sensation of it that unseats him. He's known far, far worse out on the battlefield: he'd suffered broken bones, gaping lesions, sickness and wounds and starvation alike. Once, he'd been cut open from shoulder blade to hip—he still bears the scar from that fight, and he's always worn it proudly. 

The true horror is the helplessness of it all. This is happening because he's _letting_ it happen. He could tear the blindfold from his eyes, strike down the men who treat him like property, and in doing so doom the people he once swore to protect with his every breath. Every moment he stands here, every humiliation he subjects himself to, is a choice—and that choice is no choice at all. 

At some point during the afternoon, his labored breathing becomes quiet sobs. He doesn't even notice the change until one of the men—Leos, he's sure, though their voices sound just the same—grips his chin in his hand and whispers to him that he looks much better when he's crying.

After that, he makes sure to keep quiet. Perhaps that was their goal in the first place.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, one of them comes and presses a hand to his back. Avesko's hands are tied in front of him and his his legs are forced at an angle that must expose every inch of his body; he's almost glad he can't see it. 

“Well,” Gereon says, close enough that he's nearly speaking into his ear, “we're very nearly done. Are you excited?”

Dread has become a churning, volatile mass in his stomach. It's all he can do not to vomit. Still, he gives a short, small nod. He doesn't want to be choked again.

It's strange, the mix of things they did to him. Right now his teeth and gums are tingling still in the aftermath of an intensely thorough cleaning. The peaceful, painless interludes—having his face washed and his hair clipped, being rubbed down with oil and sweet-smelling herbs—were almost more discombobulating than the torturous moments.

“Normally we'd have a tattoo done”—Gereon's hand splays across Avesko's scarred back, and it's all he can do not to beg again—“but there's no half-decent artist who'd agree to work on a time frame like this.”

Avesko starts breathing again. Hatred boils within him. He's sure that they drew the moment out on purpose.

“The only thing left to decide…” He breaks off in the middle of the word with a thoughtful hum as his fingers press against the entrance of Avesko's mouth. He parts his lips at the touch, and tries not to gag when Gereon's fingers prod against the sharp ridges of his teeth and slide over his tongue and palate. It's an impersonal invasion, clinical and methodical and all the more humiliating for it.

Just as he begins to wonder what Gereon means, there comes a quiet knock from somewhere outside the room.

Gereon stiffens. His fingers curl so fast that Avesko is forced to gag around them.

“Get the door, Leos,” he says softly. 

Leos' angry footsteps echo through the room. A moment later, he hears the creak of old hinges.

“Hello!” a new voice chirps. “I hope I'm not bothering anything.” 

It really is a chirp, too; there's something high and light and fearfully sharp about the happily-spoken words. The tone is just familiar enough that it bothers him, but he can't quite put it to a face.

Unbidden, Avesko thinks back to the dark and overgrown forests of his youth. There were flocks of little birds there, bright and jewel-colored, who darted through the treetops like living jewels. They were friendly, almost tame, until the moment they scented blood. He and his cousins used to bring scraps of raw meat out to the woods, just for the terrifying pleasure of watching the delicate little things descend in a horde and rip the treat to slivers.

The memory is less than comforting right now.

“Prince Itzal,” Gereon says suddenly. Across the room, Leos' words echo in tandem with his brother's, more respectful than Avesko has ever heard him sound before. His fingers pull out from Avesko's mouth as he settles into a low bow. “Your presence honors us.” There's a tension in Gereon's voice that belies the respectful words. Avesko's never heard that tone out of either of his handlers before.

 _Of course_ , he thinks. Prince Itzal, the youngest son of his sworn enemy. He'd only ever met the man in passing. 

The best mental image he can pull up is of a young man with pale white skin and hair that's only a few shades off. Tall and wispy, with a feminine sort of a figure and a love for gaudy ornamentation that outstrips all of his many siblings. 

Avesko's intelligence had always dismissed the man. He liked parties and wine and easy pleasure, by their estimate, and had no taste at all for scheming or planning war. No particular battle prowess, no particular talent for magic—nothing at all to his character, except that he was fortunate enough to be born to the most powerful man in the world.

Now, though, he's doubting that. He can put no solid reason to his suspicion—it's hardly out of character for a hedonistic young prince to want to examine his father's newest slave—but there's something about this prince that makes the instinct-driven parts of his brain sit up and pay attention. He can feel the young man's presence even through the blindfold.

“Please,” the prince says. “I only came to sate my curiosity. I've heard so much about you in the past few years, after all.”

With a shock, Avesko realizes he's being addressed directly. He's not sure whether he's meant to respond or not.

“Of course,” Leos says, sounding a bit uneasy. “It's only that—well, your father has ordered…”

“My father doesn't want anyone seeing his new acquisition until the big reveal, I'm sure.” Itzal sighs heavily, and Avesko can practically hear him roll his eyes. “I'm well aware how he works. It's just… well, I know how _I_ work, too, and I can't help but want just a little sneak peek. Surely it won't hurt anything—you must be just about done, right? He already looks magnificent.”

Gereon sighs, sounding defeated. “We're close, at least—or as close as we can get on this little time. We were just debating whether we ought to file his teeth down or not.”

Avesko snaps his mouth shut, alarmed. His teeth are _his_. They're a symbol of honor, of duty and strength and fierceness in battle. For them to take that—

Before he has a chance to realize what's happening, the prince is at his side. Itzal's soft fingers prise open his mouth once more, and then a smooth hand is slipping inside.

For all he's gentler than Gereon, his touch feels even more invasive. His fingers press back and forth on his palate until Adesko is gasping and gagging at the unfamiliar sensation, then slowly trace their way across every filed tooth.

He can feel drool pooling in the corners of his mouth and slicking his cheeks, and he can only imagine how he must look right now: naked, spread open, with bright metal gleaming all across his body. Willingly gagging around a strange man's fingers.

“Oh,” Itzal says finally, “I wouldn't.” He slides his hand out, making Avesko choke one last time, then gives his cheek a soft pat. “It's such a unique little detail, I'd hate to see him lose it. And anyway, even if his training's lacking it's clear he knows better than to bite.”

“Of course you're right, my lord,” says Gereon. “We'll leave them be.”

All the air in Avesko's lungs leaves with one great sigh. He can't help the pathetic sense of gratitude that wells up in him; here is one thing he can keep, at least. It's not until he feels the prince's delicate fingers curling around his jaw that he realizes he's leaning into the touch.

“Wonderful,” Itzal says softly. “And along those lines, perhaps you can leave us be for a moment or two?”

Silence greets his words. Avesko can _feel_ hesitation radiating from the pair. It's satisfying, in a strange sort of way, to know that even these two have someone they must bow to. He wishes he could see the looks on their faces right now.

“Yes,” Leos says finally. The brusqueness Avesko had become so accustomed to is nowhere to be found in his voice now. “We're happy to give you that. Only…”

Gereon picks up the sentence where it trails off. “His piercings are fresh, Prince Name.”

“Oh!” Prince Itzal gives a little gasp, sounding so incredibly surprised that he _has_ to be mocking them. “If you were worried, you could have said so. Please, don't fret—I have only the greatest respect for your work. I promise I'll keep him nice and clean. You trust me, don't you?”

There's a rustling of clothes that must mean they're bowing, and then Gereon mutters, “our faith is in you always, Prince Name. We'll just—”

“Yes, thank you,” Itzal says cheerily. “I'll just stop by and give you word when I'm on my way out.”

Footsteps echo through the room. The door squeaks open once more, then clicks shut a moment later. That warm, soft hand is still pressed against the side of his face.

It occurs to him, very suddenly, that he is completely alone with Prince Itzal. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks tiredly. There is no possible way this can end well for him. 

“Well,” the prince says. His voice is every bit as mild in private as it was in public. “First things first—let's get this ugly thing off you, shall we?”

Fingers fumble at the back of his head, and Avesko blinks and winces in the sudden light.

Sight, returned to him. It feels as though he was without it for longer than just a few hours.

The youngest prince of the Aeternis Empire smiles down at him, innocent and fearsome. “ _My._ You do have lovely eyes.” His grin turns up at the corners, becoming something mischievous, as he adds, “It's a pleasure to finally meet you properly.”

Prince Itzal is every bit the strange creature he remembered; perhaps even more so. His eyes are the pale blue of a shallow river and his hair and skin hardly seem to hold any color at all. Both his ears are pierced—one holds a simple stud, while the other gleams with a cascading burst of gems strung on a series of interwoven silver chains that fall almost to his shoulder. His wrists are piled with bracelets and there's at least one ring on each of his fingers.

The end result is—well, he's been told it's fashionable within this country's borders. To Avesko's eyes it just seems overwhelming, more befitting a courtesan than a member of the royal family.

Itzal allows him a moment to stare before he speaks again. “Honestly, that position can't be very comfortable, can it? Let's get that fixed too, while we're at it.” With that, he begins loosening the knots keeping his wrists tied in place.

He's not a particularly tall man, from what Adesko can tell, but he still looms over him while he's tied down like this. What he likes in physical stature he makes up for in sheer presence—the prince never seems to stop talking, or moving, or _being_. Even as he's concentrating on the knots around Avesko's wrists, he keeps muttering fragments of sentences or humming to himself.

Very off-key, he notices. Surprising. His own family had expected all their sons and daughters to be trained in the arts. It probably gave Aeternis too much credit to assume they'd care what their rulers were learning.

When his wrists are finally freed, he shakes them out and pulls them close to his body. Blood rushes back to his fingers with the sensation of pins and needles. 

The prince says nothing more, only leans over to give a quick sharp tug on Avesko's collar. Then, when he doesn't respond, he repeats the action. 

“A pull like that means you kneel in front of me,” Itzal adds once it's clear he has no idea what he's meant to be doing.

“Ah,” Avesko murmurs quietly before biting down on his words. He moves as quickly as he can on stiff, sore legs to settle into position. 

The urge to kill is stronger than ever now, with an heir to the throne completely alone and so close to Avesko that he could snap the young man's neck in an instant. It would do his country no good, though; there's nine other men—eight now, he supposes—in line before this prince. Killing a spare's spare would be satisfying, but isn't reason enough to break the treaty that binds him.

“It's okay,” Itzal says, “I don't expect you to know much of anything yet, not with _those two_ getting you ready.” He rolls his eyes. “My father adores their work, but I don't think either one of them has a creative bone in their body. Their art has all the precision of a printer's press, and the end result is every bit as soulless.” A quiet laugh slips from between his lips. “But you really are something amazing, aren't you? So battered and bruised, but personally I think that adds character. You must be… what, forty? Fifty? But you look younger than my father.”

As if that were any sort of shock. He's only surprised that the emperor of Aeternis doesn't look even older. There's no strength gathered in sitting on a throne all day and giving idle orders.

One of the prince's hands slides down to press against the overlapping scars on Avesko's shoulder. It's a relatively clear spot on his body; only three mark the skin there. One gained in battle, one in training, and one (rather embarrassingly) earned as a child when he tried to catch a wild dog for a pet. “You have spirit. For all they might congratulate themselves on breaking you down, I'm sure they couldn't beat that out of you if they tried. Everyone in Aeternis knows about the deal you made—even the minor nobles were gossiping about it when I paid them a visit. Not every day a little barbarian lord shows such initiative.”

Avesko tries not to bristle at the slight. His country is small in comparison to the empire's vast sprawl, yes, and perhaps it's true that their technology and weaponry don't compare… but they _fought_. Each of his men and women brought down as many soldiers as their bodies could kill, each gave their lives in the service of their people when their time came. To be reduced to a footnote, to _little barbarians_ —

He must do a poor job of hiding his anger, because Itzal laughs. “So proud. I'm only repeating what others have said.” He taps the side of his mouth with two fingers. “Open up.”

For a moment, Avesko hesitates. He's never taken a man in his mouth before, and the temptation to try and push it off is strong. Perhaps if he reminded Itzal of the fresh metal stud still holding open a bleeding hole in his tongue—but no. The prince surely remembers, and just as surely doesn't care.

His hesitation is cut short by Itzal's long fingers sliding against the seam of his mouth. “Come on, now. Or are you scared of a little pain?”

It's a pathetically obvious manipulation tactic. He opens his mouth anyway.

“ _There_ we go,” the prince says happily. “This is going to be uncomfortable, but try to pay attention. I've got some things I need to discuss with you, and this won't work if you can't multitask.” 

With that, he reaches down and slides his length from his breeches. He's half-hard already, his cock glistening at the tip—and, Avesko realizes, pierced in three equal rows down his shaft. Apparently, it could have been worse.

“Try to keep your tongue out of the way for now,” Itzal instructs as he takes hold of his collar and tilts his head upward. “I don't want you to open that piercing up too much if you can avoid it. Keep your mouth steady, wrap your lips tight around those lovely teeth of yours—there you go, that looks perfect.” Without so much as a hint of warning, he presses forward and slides his cock into Avesko's mouth. 

Avesko gags immediately. There's nothing he can do to stop the press of it against his mouth and throat, not with one of the prince's hands on his collar and the other wrapped in his hair. The taste is completely foreign, heavy on his aching tongue, and he can hardly breathe for shock. 

The prince doesn't pull out, but he does at least pause. 

“Shhh,” he murmurs gently. The hand against Avesko's head combs through his hair with a perverse sort of carefulness. “It's okay. Just relax your throat and try not to tense—it'll go easier if you let it happen.” With a slight tug on his collar, he tilts Avesko's head up a little further. “It really is your first time, isn't it? I thought they'd been exaggerating.”

Avesko just blinks, unwilling—unable—to respond. Slowly, the invasion becomes more bearable; he focuses on breathing through his nose until he no longer feels like he's about to choke. Itzal seems able to tell when his breathing steadies out, because he gives him a reassuring smile.

“There you go, you're getting the hang of it so quickly. Try to swallow around me as I go, all right? It'll be easier for you that way.” 

With that, he starts slowly forcing himself further into Avesko's mouth. His cockhead presses against the back of his throat—he tries to swallow, chokes, gags, and tries again—and then Itzal is _in_ his throat, his length sliding deeper and deeper into him until finally he bottoms out. Avesko's face is left pressed against the prince's skin and robes, held in place by a gentle grip on his head and neck. It's cruelly intimate, far too close; the feeling of being speared open and held in place is all he can bear.

“That's it, you've got it now.” The way the prince's fingers comb through his hair shouldn't be a comfort, and yet. “Look at you, you're even learning to enjoy yourself.”

He forces down another wave of shame. It's adrenaline flooding his veins, not arousal, but his body hardly knows the difference. 

Itzal kicks the slipper-like shoe off one of his feet, then lifts it to trace the underside of Avesko's cock with his bare skin. It's pleasurable, it shouldn't be—he doesn't _want_ to feel anything less than agony in the middle of this humiliation.

After a moment or two, he sets his foot back down with a quiet hum. He shifts his grip in Adeko's hair, then—slowly, agonizingly—pulls his cock a fraction of a centimeter out of his throat before sliding it back in. In, out, in, out, the thrusts growing incrementally larger each time. There's nothing he can say or do, no way to speed this up or slow it down or have any control at all. His mouth is nothing but another hole for the prince to use.

“Lovely,” Itzal sighs, “you're amazing, you're so good at this.” He tilts Avesko's head up just a touch further and grins. Quietly, with the air of someone confessing a sin they're secretly rather proud of having committed, he says, “I was hoping you'd live to the end of the war, you know. Even from the beginning I prayed that you would end up here.” His fingers curl tighter. “I always knew I wanted you, ever since I watched you kill Bertrand.”

Avesko chokes. Head spinning, heart beating frantically, lungs suddenly heaving for breath; all rational thought flees him Before any of the consequences can even occur to him, he's pulling away from Itzal and scrabbling back as far as he can. The prince holds onto him a moment, hands pulling tighter into his hair, but then he seems to realize the depth of his horror. He lets go abruptly and allows Avesko to fall to the floor.

On all fours, gasping, his throat aching where the round studs pressed into the inside of his throat and tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He knows what the prince must see.

 _Animal, an animal_ , he thinks, _nothing but a wild beast_. 

He doesn't—

He can't understand—

_None of them were meant to know._

It had been a small band who slipped deep behind enemy lines. Only the king and his most trusted warriors had been allowed to know the plan. No magic, not on this trip; they couldn't count on the mages of the Aeternis Empire not to pick up on the traces it left behind. They'd forded rivers and trudged through forests with nothing but their training and instincts for a guide, pressing forward until they finally found their goal.

Prince Bertrand, first son of the empire.

He'd been just where Avesko's intelligence had told them: a forest-rich hunting grounds in the foothills of Mount Onil, filled with rare game. For all the elder prince was an accomplished warrior, he liked hunting far more; the empire hadn't yet found the king's people enough of a threat to compel him to join the battle.

They'd struck him down while he was sleeping, tore him to pieces with nothing but their teeth and claws, and left him for the scavengers while they made their hurried way back to their own territory.

Weeks later, the mourning call had gone up across the empire. A hunting accident, a great senseless tragedy, and the king's forces had gladly taken advantage of the empire's grief to batter their flanks with greater force than ever.

It had been—well, it hadn't been enough to win, in the end. But it had bought them time and, more importantly, it had been _secret_. If the emperor knows that Avesko's people killed his heir apparent (and he must know, if even his youngest child has hold of the news) then every last one of his citizens will be killed.

There is no greater horror than this. His body can't hold the weight of his reeling terror; he shakes and shivers like a man gone mad. He surrendered to save his people, gave up his own body to protect him, and all the while each and every one of them has been destined to go to slaughter.

Without warning, Itzal kneels. His jewelry rattles as he sinks to his knees on the cold floor. Avesko braces himself, expecting a knife in his throat or a bolt of magic to tear him apart—his people, he's failed his people, the treaty will never hold with this information public, he doesn't deserve a clean death—but to his surprise the prince only reaches out and lays a hand against his cheek.

“I'm sorry,” he says, sounding perfectly genuine, “I didn't realize—why are you so afraid?”

“Please,” Avesko manages to force out, “my people, it wasn't—it was my plot, my kill, none of them had any knowledge of it, they are innocent in this.” A thought strikes him, as sudden and powerful as bolt of lightning, and he crawls forward to press himself closer. “I take full responsibility. If you can save even one of them, then _please_ ”—he leans in and presses a pathetic kiss to the rings on one of the prince's fingers—“I will do anything.” 

_Bargain-bin merchandise_ , Leos called him, but it's clear Itzal is interested in him for some strange reason. If he can only give Avesko this, there's no humiliation or torture he won't submit himself to in return.

“Oh,” the prince breathes. “You are—”

With that, he leans forward and kisses him. Avesko opens his mouth and lets Itzal in, holds himself still as the prince's curious tongue explores the edges of his teeth.

When Itzal pulls away, he is smiling. “You are _perfect_.”

It might be a good sign. Avesko doesn't dare let himself hope. 

Hands gentle, grip firm, Itzal takes hold of his collar and pulls him in closer and closer until he's practically laying against the prince's lap. It's an absurdly intimate gesture, more suited for lovers than royal and slave. The prince's arousal presses against Avesko's thigh, but he makes no move to force him to attend to it once again.

One hand is on his collar and the other is running lazily up and down his bare side, occasionally pausing to trace a scar or dig new marks into his skin. “Don't worry,” Itzal says finally, “I haven't told anyone.”

“ _What_?” 

Too late Avesko remembers the rules against slaves speaking. He presses his lips together, head spinning with the absurdity of the claim.

“It's okay. For the next few minutes, at least, I won't punish you for speaking out of turn.” Itzal leans in to press a kiss to the side of his neck, then adds, encouragingly, “you're learning.”

“How, then?” Avesko demands. “If you're not lying”—though he must be, there's no other possibility—“how can you be the only one who knows?”

An embarrassed little laugh spills from the prince's lips. He sounds like someone about to confess to a gambling habit or a love of peasant's theater. “It's a little difficult to explain, actually, but… well, you see, I'm shadows. I _watch_.”

Avesko only blinks, more confused than ever.

“Here,” Itzal says, “maybe this will help,” and he splays five fingers loosely against the skin of Avesko's chest.

He has just time enough to wonder what this could possibly be explaining when a tendril of the prince's magic blooms under the loose touch. It's pressing cold, endless void, a ragged-edged gaping _nothingness_ that spins down and down forever into blackness—

He pulls his hand back, leaving Adesko gasping for air. 

“You took that well,” Itzal says. “Poor Arturius had a fit when I tried to show him.” The words are mild enough, but his tone drips with contempt for his brother. 

“That's not Aeternis's magic.” Not his people's magic either, or any other civilization that he's known.

“No,” the prince agrees. “My mother was a… rather exotic acquisition. She took to servitude rather poorly, I'm told, but not quite poorly enough to avoid birthing me first.” He laughs. “My family all hate it, but I'm far too useful to kill.”

That's… Avesko can't keep the revulsion off his face. He'd known the emperor fathered most of his children by different mothers, but it had never occurred to him that such a powerful man might be desperate enough to head into the wild places in search of woman-shaped beings to rape.

It's almost funny. His officers spent so much time trying to combat the threat of the many battle-ready princes, and not a one had realized which of them the true danger was. 

“What do you want, then?” Avesko is willing to pay anything at all in exchange for Itzal's silence, but he can't imagine what he can possibly have that might be valuable enough.

“You.”

“I… I don't understand.” He gestures down at himself: the marks of bondage left on his skin, the collar round his neck, his totality of his debasement. The prince is strangely fond of him, perhaps, but even that must have its limits. Whatever he once was worth, he surely is no longer.

“You kill so beautifully,” Itzal sighs, “and you know just when to strike. That's what I remember most about the time I spent watching you: how long you waited, how quiet you were. No boasting, no braggadocio, just… death.” He laughs. “A warrior with a sense of subtlety! You might be rarer here than any of the trasures my father hoards.”

The look in the prince's eyes now is beyond hunger; it is desperation and desire together. “My father tolerates me because I am useful enough, but he will never let me take the throne so long as he draws breath. Whichever of my brothers inherits from him will have me hanged the moment the crown is on his head.”

“They're your family,” Avesko says, horrified.

“ _Exactly_.”

The people here are more frightening than he ever realized. The nobility of Aeternis talks of _civilization_ and _culture_ and _class_ , and the moment the doors are closed they slit their own kin's throats. 

_A feeding frenzy,_ he thinks, and shudders. Little birds fighting for scraps of meat.

“So… what, then? You want me to kill them for you?” He shakes his head. “I apologize, but there is nothing you can say to make me break this treaty.”

The thin hope of freedom burns in his chest like a flame, blown out by the wind only to catch once more. He pushes it down. His people are relying on him.

“You think my father will honor it?” The prince snorts. “Do you not know our history, then?”

“What?” Avesko all but snarls out. Without so much shifting his expression, Itzal reaches over and gives his collar a sharp tug. It's a warning: _watch your tone_.

Avesko swallows. “I don't understand,” he says more quietly.

“Oh, he'll honor it, all right—-until he grows bored of easing his way around the land instead of traveling straight through it, or until someone discovers some fine gold or diamonds under a hill there, or until the kingdom needs more fertile land to turn to dust. Once that happens, he'll _forget_ he ever made any such deals at all.”

“That—that cannot be. I will not…” As he realizes, he trails off. Horror burrows into his chest like a festering wound.

Itzal catches the words he does not say. “What, you won't _let_ him? After he's grown bored of you six months in and had you beheaded for insubordination? Perhaps some other sibling of mine will help you earn your justice: Arturius would love to see you gutted, I know. He thinks it inspires fear among the _lesser_ people. And Paschal would do the same just because the sight brings him pleasure. Or maybe one of my sisters could take you in—I know Oliva treats her dolls quite nicely once she's taken their arms and legs. Vivie is… less kind, but under her care you might live long enough to see your people fall.”

“Stop,” he begs brokenly. He is on the floor at the prince's feet, eyes wide and seeing nothing. Nothing is right. He was supposed to keep this from happening. 

_Failure_ , he thinks, _disgrace, slave, worthless king_.

Finally, he sighs. “What do you want.” It's meant to be a question, but it doesn't come out as one. He can't muster any sort of emotion beyond numb dread. “You came here to—to threaten me, to taunt me. Why.”

“Oh no,” whispers the prince, soft and heartfelt and so very contrite. He pressed his hand against Avesko's cheek and catching the tears brimming against his lashes. “No, that's not what I meant. I only wanted to make sure you understood all your alternatives. So you could make the _right_ choice.”

The right choice. Avesko almost wants to laugh. The right choices all disappeared somewhere behind him long ago. “Is that so?”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Itzal smiles. “There's always a way out. All you need to do is become mine.”

He startles back—the prince's hand moves to follow him. “What?”

“I will not die here,” he says, and the look in his eyes is iron. “An unwanted son, a spare to be thrown aside—I refuse. This kingdom buckles under the weight of my _useless_ family, and I will be the one to save it.”

“You want to become emperor.”

“I want to _rule_. Not to sit around in a smoke-filled room eating soft meats and carving up slaves for fun. I would be better than any of the rest of my family, and they know it. They'll have me slaughtered if I don't destroy them first. And for that… Well, for that I need guidance. Someone who plans in ways my brothers could never predict. Someone who knows just when to strike.”

This isn't, he realizes suddenly, the airy, sharp-edged Prince Itzal he's seen before. Nor is it the young man his spymasters all told him to disregard. Something of the mask has slipped, and Avesko is finally catching a glimpse of what's underneath: not a brainless royal or an uncaring beast-child, but a young, vicious thing with visions of cruelty and justice alike filling his head to the brim. Human and monster intertwined, and no telling which side has given him which.

He could destroy this kingdom with his rule, or take its bloated corpse into new prosperity. Either way, Avesko has nothing to lose. “If I may ask—what reason would I have to help you? You could be lying.” He wants to believe there must be at least one royal child in this country with more of a conscience than Prince Itzal.

Itzal gives a little huff of laughter. The mask has settled back into place, but crooked, awkward; something of the person beneath seeps through still. “Don't worry. By the time tonight's party is over, you'll have no reason to doubt me any more. And as for the reason…” Itzal's voice drops low, so quiet he can hardly hear it, and he says, “Understand that I will never free you. You'll be my toy, my muscle, my servant, my strategy—my loyal dog for as long as you live. But your people—I will protect them. Their borders will stay safe for as long as I am emperor.”

It is not a question at all. Desperate relief floods his veins as he throws himself into the prince's touch. He presses kisses to the sides of his legs, his shoulders, his clothing, anywhere he can reach.

“ _Ah_ ,” Itzal hisses, a little breathy. A little pleased. “I take it you agree, then?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Tell me what I need to do.”

Genuine excitement, so different from his previous mocking cheer, flits across Itzal's face for a moment. “For now, all you need to focus on is following my lead at tonight's… entertainment. I have some favors to call in. I can make sure you are gifted to me if only you act right. Beyond that—well, we'll figure it out as we go.”

Itzal smiles and leans forward to wrap his hands in Avesko's hair once more. “Before that, though… I do think your sweet little handlers might be confused if they see me spend so much time in here only to leave unsatisfied. Might get curious.”

This time, he needs no prompting. He leans in and down to tease the prince's flagging hardness back to its full length, then—once the prince is ready—takes it into his throat.

With a breathy little sigh, he presses his way further into Avesko's mouth. “Much better,” he says. His hands are still wrapped in Avesko's short hairs, but this time he has no need to tug. 

He does anyway for just a moment, making Avesko choke and gasp around the sudden sharp pain, and laughs when he hears the noise he makes.

“Won't this be perfect?” he asks. “You'll teach me how to take to my new station in life, and”—he lets go of Avesko's hair with one hand, reaches down to trace the shape of his lips where they're tight around the prince's cock—“I'll teach you yours.”

He says nothing, just fights to get Itzal further into his mouth. Once or twice he chokes, but the feeling no longer fills him with that numb horror. 

He has a goal here. A dangerous, suicidal, idiotic goal, but a goal nonetheless. If debasing himself on a foreign noble's length is part of achieving that mission, then any discomfort is nothing more than an obstacle to be worked past.

He can work with this. This is—not good, not what he wanted. But it is better than he could have hoped for.

“Amazing,” the prince breathes as he moves, “you're such a fast learner, you're truly perfect.” He keeps up a stream of nonsense as he watches Avesko, praises for his throat and tongue and warmth spilling past Itzal's lips.

This time, Itzal doesn't need to force Avesko's mouth down. He closes the last few centimeters himself until his nose presses up against soft, sparse, curls and he's once again speared open around the prince.

It will be some time, he suspects, before he will be able to take this position and not burn with humiliation. It doesn't help that the prince is stroking his hair.

“Here,” he says finally, “I want to try something. I've heard having a slave tighten up around you is just wonderful.”

With that, he presses his foot against Avesko's own cock once more. The movements are clumsy and rough (the sole pushing against him with just a bit too much pressure, pads of his toes rough with callouses borne of walking barefoot), but he can't escape the sensation and it's been so long and the prince's skin is _warm_ —

He comes, choking, to the feeling of the prince's foot pressing against him.

He makes a sound rather like “ _mfff_ ” as he tries to suck in air and finds his airway blocked. Instead he tries to breathe through his nose, but his body is shaking in helpless pleasure and it's all he can do keep his teeth out of the way and his throat is trembling with the rest of him, spasming around Itzal's length.

He moans, low and desperate, and the prince answers with a soft hiss as he comes down Avesko's throat.

With Itzal that far in, Avesko cannot taste it. Small favors, he supposes; it's still almost unbearably strange to have that warmth inside him, sliding down his throat and into his stomach. He feels like nothing more than a vessel to be used. As the prince slides his softening cock out of his mouth, Avesko catches a hint of the taste and tries not to grimace.

That will be another thing he'll need to get over, he suspects. The prince will train him to it, sooner or later.

( _Like a dog_ , his brain reminds him, but the thought has lost its sting. He is a useful dog, a beast in service to its country, and that is worth more than dignity.)

Itzal rubs his fingers across Avesko's lips one last time before standing up. He slides his cock back into his clothes, adjusts his rumpled outfit, and smiles. This time, the mask is back and fully in place.

“Well then,” Itzal says, “I think I'll leave you to it. Wouldn't want to take up any more of your trainers' precious time.” He winks, insufferably cheerful once more. “See you tonight.”

With that, he sweeps out the door, leaving him alone and shaking and gasping for breath.

 _See you tonight_ indeed. Avesko has saddled himself to a true, actual monster—and it's, if not the best, certainly the _least-bad_ of all options open to him. No point in dwelling on it now, no point in worrying. He will get through this.

He licks his lips, chasing down the last taste of the prince on his skin, and waits for his trainers to return.


End file.
